


In the Arms of the Devil

by soulless_lover



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/pseuds/soulless_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What has Sebastian's new contractor done in an effort to deal with his nightmares and horrible memories? </p>
<p>WARNING: very dark - contains self-injury and mentions of Ciel's month of torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Arms of the Devil

_memories seep from my veins / let me be empty / oh yeah, weightless and maybe / i'll find some peace tonight_

\----------------------------

 

He feels the pull so sharply that it's almost painful, as if he's a fish on a line that's suddenly been jerked; his contractor is in severe distress, teetering on the brink of death, his anguished human soul crying out in a silent, unbroken scream.

Sebastian is out of the library in an instant, moving so quickly that he's more gliding down the hallway than running, the soles of his spotless black shoes barely touching the carpet underfoot; he follows that pull, lets it bring him toward his master, toward whatever horror he might find. His heart is pounding, though he doesn't know why - he's only been bound to the child for a few scant months, and the loss of this meal would not be too great a disaster. He wonders absently if he's somehow becoming attached to the arrogant, overbearing little brat that criticizes him so harshly, will not bend to flattery or kindness, and spurns affection as if it were poison; he is annoyed with the child for making him so frantic in the middle of the night, but moreso with himself for allowing such a thing to happen.

It's not the first time he's felt his young master's silent call - like many human survivors of severe trauma, the boy is prone to nightmares, and occasionally is so frightened by them that he cries out in his dreams: _Someone, anyone, save me!_ It's the same cry that attracted Sebastian in the first place, so full of beautiful, broken despair, and it still pierces the demon's consciousness like a knife, slicing into his usually unflappable calm and stirring his blood into a boiling, unbearable froth that _must_ be settled, lest he go mad; this is, however, the first time since their meeting that the pull has been so strong, dragging him through the darkened manor with such fierce, desperate violence, and Sebastian is very, very worried. 

He reaches his destination - a water-closet in the young master's rooms - and throws the door open without hesitation.

He smells it long before he sees it: blood. A lot of it. Blood everywhere, spattering the sink and the claw-footed porcelain bathtub; it's smeared here and there on the walls, the door, even the pull-chain on the high tank of the toilet; and there, on the floor in the middle of the room, sits the demon's contractor, a man's straight-razor for shaving in his small hand, his linen nightshirt dyed crimson with gore, blood _drip, drip, drip_ ping from a variety of cuts on his arms and legs onto the snow-white marble floor tiles. The child's eyes are huge and empty, his expression so flat and blank that it somehow shows more pain than if he had been wailing uncontrollably, and the demon is momentarily frozen with shock. His young master is all of ten short human years, and the agony radiating from him is so powerful that a man five times his age would be loath to bear it.

"Young Master!" He crosses the room at a run and kneels on the floor beside his master, blood from the shallow puddle around him soaking into his trousers; immediately, he seizes the child's wrist and snatches the blade from his hand, then throws it across the room, out of reach. The razor's heavy bone handle strikes the small mirror on the washstand, shattering it, and the sound makes the boy look up; his eyes are wide and luminous and Sebastian can see himself in them, twin looking-glasses reflecting Hell back at him.

"Sebastian...?" The voice is small and distraught, and would be a sob if the boy had any tears left to shed. "Sebastian..."

Realizing the moment is dire, the demon softens his tone, and when he speaks again, it is kind and gentle and as sweet as cane sugar: "What is it? What has upset you so much?" He draws his handkerchief from his breast pocket and examines the most heavily-bleeding injury: a long gash across the child's left forearm. It is so deep that Sebastian can see the thin layer of subcutaneous fat, sliced neatly through and laid open like a cut of roast. "Oh my... Young Master, what have you done?" He presses the folded square of linen over the wound, squeezing to staunch the bleeding. 

"Sebastian... Sebastian... Sebastian..."

He strokes the boy's hair gently, as if he's petting a nervous cat. "Yes, Young Master. It's Sebastian, your butler. I am here - I will not let anyone or anything harm you... including yourself." He tips the boy's face upward, strokes his cheek. "I will not let you kill yourself, Young Master."

The child looks lost, confused, as if he's only just now waking from his dream. "I wasn't... I didn't..."

"Look around you - this is _your_ blood, a great quantity of it. What were you trying to do with that blade, if not end your own life?"

"They... they were _inside_ me," the boy says in a strange, hollow voice. "All of them. All of them..."

"They are not there now," Sebastian answers. "They are gone, and you are safe in your manor. Only you and I are here, and I will keep them away from you, if you so desire." He doesn't even know who "they" are, exactly - but his young master is terrified of Them, and the demon has sworn to protect him, and so Sebastian is willing to fight even shadows, if he must.

"Crawling," says the child, his vacant gaze reminding the demon of the frozen, glassy stare of a porcelain doll. "In my body... in my blood... my skin is crawling with it... foul... unclean..." His face turns an odd, sallow color, and he lurches toward the toilet; Sebastian moves with him so as not to release the pressure from the wound, and the boy vomits into the embossed porcelain bowl several times. Then, as if by habit and without raising his head, he reaches up with a small, bloody hand and pulls the chain to flush the wastewater away, gasping violently for breath. Sebastian watches quietly, finally understanding how the pull-chain's ceramic handle came to be smeared with gore.

"Young Master," the demon murmurs, carefully keeping his voice as calm and supportive as possible despite his increasing distaste for the entire situation; he is greatly unsettled by the sight of his usually steadfast little contractor showing such great weakness, and coupled with the mingling odors of human effluvia, his revulsion is nearly overwhelming. "You must be plain - what is it that has disturbed you so? I cannot help you if you do not tell me what the matter is."

"Inside me," the boy cries, his voice broken and rising in pitch. "They--" His eyes go wide and he retches again, but there is nothing left in his stomach, and he is left convulsing over the bowl in dry heaves. "Augh... ugh... they... they took... ugh..." 

Perplexed and losing his patience with such dramatic behavior, Sebastian pulls him away from the toilet and onto his lap, then uses his free hand to grip the boy's chin and force his head upward. "Young Master. Look at me. Look." When the child obeys, he leans down a bit closer and begins to speak in gentle, dulcet tones. "Calm yourself, little lord. There is no one here but you and I. No one." His voice is deep and melodic, crooning to the fragile soul beneath the pale, shivering human exterior. "Look at me. See that you are safe. Look at my eyes and see that I only speak truth to you, my young master. Look..." 

Almost immediately, the boy stills, charmed; he's lost in those blood-red irises that shift and swirl like storm clouds, the hypnotizing, mercurial patterns flowing over the coal-ember glow deep within; he forgets his fear, forgets his pain and disgust, forgets that anything outside of Sebastian's presence even exists; slowly, the tension drains away with the rest of the world, leaving only that honeyed voice and captivating gaze, until his body goes slack and he simply lies there in the devil's arms, pliant and malleable.

"Ah, there now," Sebastian soothes, his face so close that the child catches the scent of his warm breath, comforting and sweet like clove and fresh tea biscuits made with cinnamon-spice. "That's it... there's a good boy..."

Those last few words, spoken in the lilting tones of a lullaby, seem to calm the little lord more than anything else the demon has said; the phrase drifts through his consciousness to settle over the distant memory of a quiet, reassuring voice beside his sickbed, the warmth of a large hand stroking gently over his feverish forehead and through his sweat-dampened hair.

Sensing this, Sebastian rifles quickly through the boy's dazed, unguarded mind, searching for the reason behind the change; his young master normally forbids him to do such a thing - but, he reasons, the situation is definitely not a normal one, and he is not reading all of the boy's memories, focusing instead on that single target. Once he has what he desires, he immediately withdraws the mental tendril and puts the newfound information to use: he cradles the child in the arm occupied with keeping pressure on the still-bleeding wound, then brings the opposite hand up to brush back the hair that's fallen over that smooth, unlined brow. "Yes, that's it... look at me... there's a good boy... hush now, be at ease... good boy..."

The restless, anguished soul settles, ceasing its frantic, incessant pull; the boy's bony, birdlike little body rests lightly in the demon's embrace, as delicate as a fine china cup; his eyes drift half-shut, those lovely mismatched eyes looking up through long, dark lashes, his expression languid and accepting, as if he's been drugged; and once he's completely calm and still, Sebastian slowly releases him from the luring trance, but only just enough at first to allow comprehension and speech.

"There now... can you tell me what it is that frightened you so?" A thread of fear winds itself around the boy's soul, but Sebastian drives it away with a placid smile and his rich, serene voice: "It's all right - I promise no harm will come to you, and anything you entrust to me shall never be repeated to anyone else. You are quite safe, and there is nothing to fear. Please, my lord, tell me so that I may be of use to you."

"Back... then," the child begins, haltingly, "I was made to... I was..." He pauses, a wave of horror rolling through him, and for a moment, the demon considers entrancing him again - but he summons strength without assistance and continues: "They shamed me... a dozen, two dozen... perhaps more... they..." He stops again, and his fingers curl around Sebastian's lapel and clutch it as if it's a lifeline. "They were _inside_ me, all of them... leaving traces of themselves behind... I _felt_ them in my blood... defiling me... I hated them... wanted them out of me..."

Realization dawns on Sebastian, and he must grit his teeth to quell the irrational anger - after all, they are already dead, slain without mercy by himself, at his new master's command. "And so, half mad with night-terrors and self-loathing, you tried to bleed them out?" He strokes the child's head gently, smiling. "Young Master, your memories belong to your soul, not your body. They will never seep from your veins, however much you might wish them to, and even if you were to bleed until you were as empty and weightless as a soap bubble, you would find no peace from them."

"I know," the boy answers, a flash of his fierce pride showing through. "I know." He looks away from the anger and disapproval he sees in Sebastian's eyes. "...I know."

"Then you must also know how dangerous this foolish idea was." The butler's voice is calm and even, but his tone carries a hard edge.

"Yes, of course." The young master is coming back to himself, his usual petulance returning, and Sebastian realizes he must act quickly before the spell is gone, taking his influence with it.

He takes hold of the boy's chin again and turns his head until he is facing him once more. "Young Master."

"What?" The child is obviously uncomfortable, looking rather as if he'd like to run away.

"You will _never_ do this again." Sebastian's eyes are gleaming, but it is not the warm, comforting glow of a fireplace ember that emanates from them anymore - it's the blaze of war-torn cities burning to the ground, the red-hot tip of an Inquisitor's branding iron, the searing flames engulfing an innocent woman burnt at the stake for witchcraft. "You would have bled to death, had I not been here to stop you, and I will not allow that to happen. _I will not let you kill yourself,_ whether your actual intent is suicide or otherwise. Do you understand, Young Master?"

Pinned by the devil's furious gaze and feeling quite small, the boy nods, and after being prompted none too gently by a slight increase in the grip on his chin, he mutters somewhat sullenly: "Yes, I understand."

Sebastian's amiable smile suddenly returns, and he rises to his feet, carrying the child with him. "Very good. Now, then... I shall tend to your wounds and draw a bath for you in one of the guest suites, and after we've cleaned you up, I shall make you a cup of hot milk with honey in it, and then I shall put you to bed. You have a full schedule tomorrow, and it will never do to have you oversleeping." His tone softens, and he adds in a voice so kind the boy almost forgets Sebastian's demonic nature: "And we shall have no more talk of this."

The boy puts his free arm around Sebastian's neck, and although he would insist it's only for support, the butler knows better. "Sebastian..."

"Yes?"

".......No, it's nothing. Never mind. Just... get me out of here." 

Sebastian smiles pleasantly. "Yes, my lord."

The boy rests his head on the devil's shoulder, seemingly exhausted, and allows himself to be carried away from the disaster behind him. 

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> i debated whether or not to post this, given its shortness and the extremely dark subject matter, but finally decided in its favor. stuff like this happens, whether or not we want to believe it, and the sooner we as a society stop dismissing self-injury as a phase, a fad, a ploy for attention, or "something emos do", the sooner those suffering from the compulsion can get the care they need before they become another tragic statistic.
> 
> partially inspired (ironically) by Sarah McLachlan's song "Angel".


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